Exercises in Obfuscation
by icepixel
Summary: Ivanova and Garibaldi are terrible at misdirection, much to the amusement of their friends.  Ivanova/Garibaldi.


**Notes:** Takes place over the three months between "Revelations" and "A Race Through Dark Places." Some dialogue from "The Geometry of Shadows" and ARTDP.

Thanks to rowdycamels and caffey for ridiculosity-policing and other excellent beta work!

* * *

She found Franklin at his desk in the middle of Medlab One, making notes on some patient reports. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant Commander?" he asked once he noticed her standing in front of him.

"Is Garibaldi awake?"

He peered at the row of readouts displaying the vitals of all the patients in the area. "He's been in and out most of the day...looks like he's sleeping now."

Being shot in the back would have that effect, she supposed. At least he was out of the coma. "Do you mind if I sit with him for a while?"

She wished there were a way to see Michael without appearing quite so sentimental. But he had almost died; maybe there was a pass for this kind of situation. She caught Franklin's surprise at her question, but he recovered quickly. "No, go ahead. Take as long as you like."

"Thanks, Stephen."

He'd been moved to one of the small, private rooms ringing the facility. Susan pulled the single chair over to the bed and sat facing him for a moment, looking for signs of improvement. He'd been a pale, hollow shell of himself while he was in the coma; now, though he still looked haggard, he'd regained some color, and his cheeks didn't look so sunken.

Several days ago, she'd asked Franklin what he thought Michael's chances really were. "Anyone else...I'd say not a chance in hell," he'd replied. "But he wanted to tell us something so badly that he dragged himself up sixteen levels to do it. I think he might just be stubborn enough to come back from this so he can tell us whatever was so important."

She'd put all her faith in his stubbornness. It seemed she hadn't been wrong to do so.

But the old maxim about an ounce of prevention and a pound of cure still applied. "When you get out of here," she told his sleeping form, "we're going to have a talk about the importance of watching your back."

* * *

The third time he woke up that day, he found her sitting next to him, thumbing through a report on a data pad. A moment later, he realized her other hand was lying on top of his. He squeezed her fingers gratefully.

"Hey," she said, putting the data pad down in her lap and smiling at him. "I was starting to think you were going to sleep the entire afternoon."

"Believe me, it's tempting."

She reached into her pocket. "I brought you something." Her eyes acquired a twinkle as she held the object out to him.

"An Earth bar!" He'd developed a fondness for the chocolate-covered coconut and caramel confection on Mars, where it had been developed and named as something of a joke, but had caught on because it actually tasted good. "You are wonderful," he told her.

She managed to school her features into a stern expression. "Yeah, well, don't let Stephen find out I gave you that, or he'll have my head."

He squirreled it away under the blanket for later. "I won't breathe a word."

She was about to say something when Captain Sheridan walked into the room. Instantly, she pulled her hand from his; he managed, barely, to suppress a sigh of regret. He knew Ivanova didn't want to be the subject of gossip, and he sympathized, but in his view, there was a line between avoiding a starring role in station scuttlebutt and sneaking around like teenagers, and they were fast approaching it.

Then again, he couldn't exactly cast stones at the moment. He would rather his introduction to his new CO not consist of, "Hi, Michael Garibaldi. I'm your Chief of Security, oh, and by the way, I've been sleeping with your exec for the past two months."

While he was thinking this, Sheridan looked at them with a puzzled expression. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" he said, lilting it into a question at the end.

"No, sir," Ivanova said, a touch too quickly.

"Ah. Well, I'm glad you're both here. We need to talk about Ambassador Delenn..."

* * *

She was happy. Happy to be sharing a drink with her friends, happy about solving the Drazi conflict, happy about her promotion, happy, really, just to be alive. Ivanova listened, smiling, as Garibaldi told them why he'd chosen to come back to duty.

"And then I decided I bring two unique qualifications to the job," he was saying. "Number one, as the Captain was kind enough to point out: I know this place and everybody on it _intimately._"

Thankfully, she hadn't been drinking anything when he said that, or it probably would've ended up on the table. She intercepted his significant glance, and sent him one in return that promised pain. They had a _deal_, dammit.

Trying to deflect suspicion, she laughed awkwardly and said, with what she hoped was the right amount of mock offense, "I _beg_ your pardon?"

He pointed at her. "Hey, in the two years you've been here, you've never been more than two inches away from your link. Knowing that little piece of information helped save your butt."

If she glared at him, Franklin and Sheridan would definitely know something was up. And she had to admit that it was a good save. She decided it would be best not to say anything, and just nodded.

Franklin asked what the second qualification was, and Garibaldi responded, "I don't trust anybody."

If her foot hadn't been in a cast, she would've kicked him under the table. She was glad he'd figured out discretion, but there was no need to be hurtful. He looked at her again. _Except you,_ he seemed to be thinking at her. _Of course I trust you._

* * *

"How about spaghetti?" he suggested, standing in the dry goods aisle of Zodor's Garden Market and Spoo Emporium.

Susan made a face. Her "food plan" called for lots of starch and high-calorie foods, and she didn't like it one bit. Of course, he wasn't too fond of his, either.

"Come on, you liked it the last time I made it."

She considered this. "I liked the mushrooms. Do you think it'd be good if we added a green pepper, too?"

"Might be." It might even take the meal half a step closer to meeting the requirements of _his _food plan. "I'll even let you add that insane amount of onions you like."

Later, he would swear that Franklin _ambushed_ them. One minute he was picking up a box of spaghetti noodles, and the next his name was ringing in his ears.

"Garibaldi! What do you think you're doing with that?"

Susan saved him from having to answer. "We decided we should trade recipes. Since he doesn't know how to make vegetables appealing and I haven't got the first clue about pasta sauce, we thought we might both learn something if we cooked together a few times." She gave Franklin what Garibaldi had privately come to call her "I'm a diplomat, you should trust me" smile. It had gotten a lot of use since her promotion.

Franklin gave them both a look that suggested something nearby reeked of dead sea life. But all he said was, "I'm requiring all of you to come in for another physical in three weeks. I'd better see some improvement by then."

* * *

While Sheridan talked to the junior officers at the weekly command staff meeting, she caught Michael looking at her. When he had her attention, he slowly moved his left hand up to his neck and rubbed a spot just above his collar. She narrowed her eyes. _What?_

He rubbed the spot again, tilting his head fractionally toward her. She touched her own neck at the same spot, and with a shiver of horror realized what had happened. Though she'd covered the tell-tale red mark with concealer that morning, it laid half-under her collar, and the makeup had started rubbing off against her jacket. Attempting to be casual about it, she twisted her fingers in her hair - thank God she'd left it loose today - affecting an itch just above her ear, and rearranged a handful so that it hid the evidence of the previous night's activities.

As the meeting progressed, her hand kept drifting up to her neck, making sure the mark was still covered. At the end, as the other officers were filing out of the meeting room, Sheridan looked at her with some concern. "Is your neck bothering you, Commander?" he asked.

She managed to keep her hand from flying to the spot. "Uh, no, sir, not at all."

"You keep touching it, like you're in pain," he pressed.

She held her hands up in a classic "Who, me?" pose and put on her best wide-eyed innocent expression. "Nope. I'm just fine."

He didn't look entirely like he believed her, but he nodded anyway. "If you're sure..."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

He came by Medlab to grab her for a meeting. He was just in time to hear Franklin tell her, "It's not healing as well as it should because you keep walking on it. If you don't keep off that foot, I'm going to assign someone to follow you around and make sure you rest it."

He grinned and took a few steps forward into their sight. "No need, Doc. I'll make sure she takes it easy for a few days."

Susan glared daggers at him. "Garibaldi!" she hissed, and if she weren't stranded on the exam table he thought she might actually do him harm.

Franklin nodded, appearing surprised but quickly accepting the assistance. "I'll take help wherever I can get it. Good luck to you, Garibaldi."

Susan appeared to have swallowed a lemon. "I hate both of you," she announced.

"Now, now," he said, putting his hands on her waist and half-lifting her off the table. "Hate's a very strong word."

She grabbed her cane, and he just barely managed to get out of the way before the tip came down precisely where his right foot had been.

"The captain wants to see us in ten," he said. "You know, since the doc wants you off your foot, maybe I should carry you there..."

"If you so much as think about it, I will personally throw you in the fusion reactor," she stated.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Franklin suppress a chuckle.

"Let's go," Susan said, and strode as fast as she could toward the Medlab doors. Despite her obviously violent mood, he couldn't help the fact that, almost instinctively, his hand found its way to the small of her back. That, at least, she didn't seem to mind.

* * *

"_What?_" Her exclamation drew the attention of nearby officers in Earhart's, but they quickly returned their gazes to their drinks or their companions when she glared at them.

Michael raised his hands, perhaps a little defensively. "The order came directly from Senator Velasquez. There was nothing I could do. I had to seal both your quarters."

She sighed. "Does the captain know?" When he shook his head, her expression acquired a look of grim pleasure. "I'll do the honors. Maybe now he'll listen to reason."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I am in for a very uncomfortable night."

Under the table, he placed his hand on her knee. "Not necessarily."

She had to admit that she found the offer sorely tempting. But after a moment, she shook her head. "He'd get curious why I suddenly had a place in your quarters. Then where would we be?"

"The same place we are now, except Sheridan would know?"

By now, she recognized the note of frustration that lay under the flippancy. They'd had this discussion more than once, and he was right, she knew, but something in her was still terrified at telling people about their relationship. Other people knowing made it official, and making it official meant it could potentially be used against them.

"Susan," he said, lowering his voice almost to a whisper. "We aren't doing anything wrong."

She winced. "I know, I know." Biting her lip, she stared down at the table, gathering her courage. Finally, she took a breath and looked at him again. She had to do this before she chickened out. "All right."

"Yeah?" he asked, brightening.

"Yes." She couldn't help returning his smile. "I accept your offer. And since I can't get into my quarters, I hope you're willing to part with your Dodgers shirt for a night." He nodded. "I don't want to _announce_ it, but...if he figures it out, he figures it out. Same with everyone else."

"Exactly." Michael looked downright conspiratorial.

She patted his shoulder and stood up. "I'll see you in a few."

* * *

Smugly leaning against the wall, she watched Sheridan try to use his keycard. The door, as she knew it would, repeatedly refused to open. When he thumped the lock with the palm of his hand, she decided to put him out of his misery. "Forget it," she called. "They've been sealed."

"_What?_"

"Direct orders from Earth Central." Oh, she was enjoying this a bit too much. "Your quarters and mine have been sealed until we either move to smaller quarters or begin paying rent on the bigger ones. Garibaldi let me know a little while ago."

Sheridan glowered. "If they think that they are gonna pressure me like this, they're wrong." He turned back to the lock. "Got something we can jimmy this thing with?"

"I already tried it on my quarters." If nothing else, she wanted to at least get her toothbrush, and some small, cowardly part of her had hoped to put off letting Sheridan in on their secret for just a little while longer. "I set off the sprinklers, scrambled the lock codes on both sides of the hall, and scared the hell out of security."

Sheridan fumed for a while longer before finally admitting that, injustice or not, they were going to have to find somewhere to sleep that night. "You can have the couch in my office," he offered.

"I've already got a place, actually," she admitted, her heart hammering in her chest.

His disapproval was palpable. "Don't tell me you rented a room."

"No." She shrugged, trying as hard as she could to sound nonchalant. "Garibaldi offered to let me bunk with him for the night."

If he thought this was at all irregular, he showed no sign of it. He mostly seemed peeved that she'd scored a bed. "Ah. Well, congratulations on your good fortune." The bright side of it apparently sunk in. "I guess that means I get the couch."

"Right," she managed to answer, still flummoxed by his lack of curiosity. Would they eventually have to tell him outright? God, that was a horrible thought. "Well. I guess I'll see you in the morning, Captain."

"Good night, Commander. Tomorrow we _will_ straighten this out."

"Of course, sir."

* * *

They were the first to arrive at Earhart's for dinner with Sheridan and Franklin. To kill the time, he asked her to dance.

Neither of them were very good dancers. He kept getting off the beat, and she had a tendency to backlead, but at least they were able to laugh at themselves when they did so. Since their agreement a few days ago, she'd become a lot more relaxed about other people seeing them together when they were off duty. Garibaldi liked this new side of her.

By the time the song ended, their friends had arrived. He thought she would let go of his hand as they walked over to the table, but to his surprise, she hung on tightly. He glanced at her, an eyebrow raised in silent query, and she shrugged. _We said we were going to let people figure it out, right?_ she seemed to be saying.

When they made it to the table, they let go only once they were sure the others had seen.

Shaking his head, Sheridan turned to Franklin. "Stephen, I get the impression we're being given a hint."

Franklin nodded. "I think you're right."

And then he did a very strange thing.

"Captain," he said, sounding _extremely_ smug. "What's today's date?"

Sheridan, on the other hand, looked resigned. "You know very well that it's April tenth."

The doctor nodded. "To think that it's only five more days until April fifteenth. And six long, long weeks from June first."

"I don't believe this!" Ivanova exploded. "You made a bet on when we'd - we'd..." She waved her hands, stymied by outrage.

"When you'd finally tell everyone?" Sheridan asked.

Garibaldi started. "When we'd tell everyone? You mean it wasn't...?"

Franklin and Sheridan exchanged a look. "You realize you've been obvious for months now, right?" Franklin said. "We just thought it was hilarious watching you try to hide it, so no one said anything."

They gaped at him.

"It was pretty hard to miss," Sheridan added. "My grandmother would've said you were both acting like long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs."

Ivanova had started tapping her index finger on the table. Garibaldi looked like he was mentally compiling a list of every place on the station where a body wouldn't be found for a while.

Their friends, at least, were smart enough to read the writing on this wall as well. "So, should we expect your revenge to be drawn-out and subtle, or swift and overt?" Sheridan asked.

Ivanova glowered. "If I were you, I'd bet on both."


End file.
